"I don't know, I'm sure. He said I was born in the spring, because I'm like a flower! Really, that child will grow up a poet, if he doesn't look out!"
"You are like a flower," I murmured back. "And I'm glad your birthday is in spring. I mean to celebrate it!"
And then I thought of poor Vicky Van's birthday, so tragically ended, and I quickly changed the subject.
Armed with the pictures, Fleming Stone and his young assistant spent the next day on a still hunt.
And in the evening Stone came over to see me.
"A little quiet confab," he said, as we secluded ourselves in my sitting-room and closed the door, "I've been to a score of places, and invariably they recognize Miss Van Allen and her maid, but all say they've not seen her since the tragedy. I went to shops, offices, the bank and places where she would be likely to need to go. Also, her friends' houses. But nothing doing. The shops have heard from her, in the way of paid bills, checks and such matters, but I learned absolutely nothing that throws any light on her whereabouts. Now, Mr. Calhoun, the very thoroughness of her disappearance, the very inviolable secrecy of her hiding-place proves to me that she isn't hiding."
"Now, Mr. Stone," I said, smiling, "you talk like a real story-book detective. Cryptic utterances of that sort are impressive to the layman, you know."
"Pshaw!" and he looked annoyed, "if you knew anything about detective work, you'd know that the most seemingly impossible conditions are often the easiest to explain."
"Well, then, explain. I'll be glad to hear."
"I will. And, in return, Mr. Calhoun, I'm going to ask you if you don't think, that all things considered, you ought to tell me what you are keeping back? You won't mind, will you, if I say that I have deduced, from evidence," he smiled, "that your interests are largely coincident with those of Mrs. Schuyler?"